


Tumblr Kiss Meme Prompt Fills

by graves_expectations



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-25 07:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10759344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations
Summary: A collection of a few kiss-related prompts from one particular post on tumblr.Prompts included: 'kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing'; 'routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing'; and 'painful kiss'





	1. Prompt: kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing

Percival has sat for the last _hour and a half_ in a daze of frustrated yearning, completely unable to focus on his own leisurely pursuits, whilst Credence has been sketching innocuously in the armchair across the room from him. He’s got his legs drawn up underneath himself in a way that looks at once endearing and hellishly uncomfortable to Percival. His joints can’t mind too much though, or perhaps he’s just too preoccupied with his shading because he hasn’t unfolded himself once since he took to the chair.

Ever since Credence happened to mention that he had provided the illustrations for some of the pamphlets he used to distribute for his hag of an adoptive mother (may her soul never rest), Percival has been lavishing him with frequent gifts of art supplies. He knows the amount he’s bought is probably bordering on excessive—a bit of drawing does not the next Michelangelo make, but Credence deserves every last morsel of his encouragement and more. The boy had never even seen _watercolours_ before, who was Percival to deny him every new experience he could so easily offer?

To that end, Percival’s study now houses an easel and a canvas, a number of sketchpads like the one currently balanced on Credence’s lap, a variety of pencils, paints, chalks, charcoals, and even some wax crayons. He was considering investing in a pottery wheel when Credence had laughed softly at the idea, giving him the most dazzling smile afterwards, and said “how about I use what I have first?”

Privately, Percival had decided he was getting the wheel… as soon as he could figure out where it was going to go.

Unfortunately for Percival, Credence is just particularly arresting when absorbed in something creative. For once, he loses all traces of self-consciousness, awareness narrowing down to the movements of his hands. Percival is very aware of the movements of Credence’s hands too, funnily enough. His eyes are covetous as he tracks those long, elegant fingers making magic of a kind Percival isn’t familiar with: transferring the vision in his head down onto paper so that others might see it through his eyes.

Credence tilts his head this way and that, forehead alternately creasing and smoothing as he concentrates on the little details of whatever he is busy creating. A soft, shiny wave of hair falls into his face when he tips his head down just so. He flicks it away impatiently and Percival can just _see_ the comment coming that Credence feels he needs it cutting again. Percival wonders whether he should offer to tie it back for him now in a bid to prolong the time until that comment gets voiced—to him, this length is perfect. He loves twining his fingers in Credence’s hair when they kiss, loves holding a drowsy Credence and running his hand through those curls languorously after a long day.

To tell the truth, he’s been waiting for just that this whole evening. He’s been waiting for Credence to put his sketchbook aside, make his way over to the couch where Percival is, lay himself down with his head in Percival’s lap and give that sinuous _(sinful)_ ripple of his back that tells Percival better than any words that he wants to be touched and stroked and adored.

Such an event has not been forthcoming. Hence: frustration of the highest order.

As he looks on, Credence’s mouth parts, his tongue darts out to wet his lips and then _it stays out_ , the tip peeking out from the corner of his mouth.

Percival is just one man. One weak, weak man. He can contain himself no longer.

Credence only glances up when Percival’s shadow falls across the paper of his sketchbook. He’s been working on a rather lifelike study of Newt Scamander’s Niffler, it seems. The likeness is so good that Percival feels a similar wave of annoyance towards the drawing that he would if the real menace of a creature were in front of him. Scamander and his scavenger owe him nearly a full Dragot considering how much pocket change the beast has lifted from him.

“It’s good,” he murmurs and Credence flushes prettily.

He takes out one of the ribbons he keeps on his person, moves behind the chair, and fulfils his earlier desire to tie Credence’s hair up for him. As he does it, he takes no pains to keep his hands and fingers from brushing the nape of Credence’s neck. In fact, he makes a special effort to do the opposite, gratified when it earns him a shudder from Credence.

“Thank you,” Credence says, face turned up to smile at Percival behind him.

“My pleasure.”

He means that wholeheartedly. With Credence’s hair out of the way, he’s got some of his favourite areas of skin exposed. That deliciously vulnerable nape he’d just been stroking, the smooth expanse of his throat, the hollows of his collarbones that might as well have been sculpted from marble by Credence’s God himself.

Percival moves to perch on the arm of the chair on Credence’s right side and leans in to tug at the collar of Credence’s shirt before pressing his mouth to the shoulder he’s just bared. He smiles against the skin when Credence’s head automatically slants the other way to give Percival more room to work.

“Percival,” Credence whines. The tone is more irritated than aroused, but that only spurs Percival on. He wants to tip the balance in his favour.

“What?” he asks with as much innocence as he can muster. He kisses the side of Credence’s neck, sucking gently but insistently in three points to make a triangular pattern on a whim. After, he just rests his lips against the throb of Credence’s pulse, satisfied to feel it getting faster.

“I’m—oh—I’m trying to finish this!”

“Go ahead, don’t mind me.” Percival chuckles, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to Credence’s cheek next.

“You’re an awful man,” Credence complains, but he’s still angling his head in a way that betrays him and he’s dropped the pencil he was clinging to so stubbornly. That last kiss was _too_ chaste for him, Percival suspects.

“Mmm,” Percival hums his agreement. “Awful. _Wicked_.”

“Wicked. No hope for redemption—ah!”

Percival had just set his teeth carefully against Credence’s right eyebrow, not pressing hard, but applying just enough pressure to shock Credence.

“Did you just bite my eyebrow?” Credence asks, incredulous.

“You weren’t succumbing to my charms.”

Now _he’s_ the one whining. He’s not above such tactics though when it comes to Credence. He presses his forehead to Credence’s temple, nose and mouth bumping against the side of Credence’s face.

“Wasn’t I? You know, you’re impossible to ignore when you’re nuzzling me like a cat, Mister Graves.”

Percival smirks. So he’s ‘Mister Graves’ now, is he? He trails his lips over to the corner of Credence’s mouth but pulls his head back teasingly when he feels Credence start to turn his head into the kiss.

The expression on Credence’s face at that is one of reluctant amusement. “I’m sorry, are we kissing or am I allowed to finish my drawing?”

“Kissing, definitely.”

Percival bows his head back down, sliding a hand around the back of Credence’s neck to pull him forward the last few necessary inches, and brings their lips together.

A muffled thump indicates Credence’s sketchbook sliding off his lap and landing on the floor, forgotten as he leans up to meet Percival’s kiss.

If his mouth wasn’t otherwise pleasantly occupied, Percival might have given a cheer.

Success.


	2. Prompt: routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing

One of the things Percival loves best about being with Credence is the simple pleasure of being able to shower affection on someone who previously received so little of it.

Simple though the pleasure may be, Percival finds himself consumed by the need to discover more ways to show Credence how loved he is. He spends his evenings not putting in extra hours at work anymore, but at _home_ like he should be, showing off whimsical spells he hasn’t cast since his school days just to see Credence’s smile that he’s wearing so much more freely these days, to hear his laughter turn from awkward and unpracticed to airy and uninhibited.

He praises Credence’s every achievement, profusely thanks every kindness. He buys gifts that range from the practical (warm gloves, warm socks) to the indulgent (his pantry has never contained so many sweet things before).

All his life, Percival hadn’t thought of himself as an especially affectionate man, but now that Credence has awoken this tender urge in him, he finds it just will not lie dormant again. Nor does he want it to.

His favourite way to satiate that urge is easily through touch. He cherishes Credence with feet bumping against his teasingly at the breakfast table, with worshipful fingertips learning every notch of his spine, with lips hiding kisses behind his ears where no one else might think to look.

Gradually, to Percival’s extreme satisfaction, Credence has come to accept those touches without any lingering doubt in his eyes. Now, he’s even begun to seek them out, to _ask_ for them, albeit without words because he still finds those difficult.

There’s the way he’ll lean his head right back into Percival’s shoulder when Percival walks into a room and embraces him from behind—that means he wants Percival to kiss his neck. He’ll drop his head onto Percival’s thighs when he wants his hair played with or he’ll sit as close as possible beside Percival without being _on_ him when he wants Percival to hold him in the evenings. There’s one particular squirm of his hips that always lets Percival know when he wants things to go further, a gesture that somehow manages to be as shy as it is salacious. It steals Percival’s breath every time.

Percival hoards the memories of each nonverbal cue with all the clarity of his mind so he can revisit them as easily as if he were using a Pensieve. One of his favourites is perhaps the most commonplace and innocent of them all:

Every morning, without fail, Credence angles his face so that Percival will give his cheek a goodbye kiss before he leaves for work.

Percival had started doing it for himself, really, wanting one last bit of contact to go out and face the world with. One for the road, he’d always thought with a smile that he pressed against a sculpted cheekbone.

Then, when he was in a rush one morning, he had called goodbye to Credence from the doorway rather than going back to see him after he finished getting ready. He suddenly heard a rush of footsteps and a dark blur of a young man all but _threw_ itself into his arms. He’d stumbled back a little, surprised, and then he’d been unable to stop smiling when he realised what the matter was.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, smoothing a hand over Credence’s hair. “That wasn’t a proper goodbye at all, was it?”

“I have to see you before you go,” Credence had told him, the plaintive words muffled where he had his face pressed against Percival’s chest. “Your job’s dangerous, what if—like before—what if—”

 _That_ had stopped him smiling at once. Credence was gulping in air as if in a panic, barely intelligible.

Percival was amazed to hear him so concerned. He’d had no idea that Credence worried about him leaving to go to MACUSA each day, that he was somehow savouring a last image and last touch from him in case the worst should happen.

The realisation had felt at once like a crushing responsibility and an immense gift, and he’d resolved to be better right then and there, to be faster and wiser and more careful. There was someone in his life now that he needed to come home to.

“Hush,” he’d soothed, gently disentangling Credence from himself so he could push him back enough to be able to look him in the face again. “Breathe, Credence, come on now.”

He cupped the back of Credence’s head in one hand to take that weight from him and pressed the other against his chest, feeling the movements of his ribs turn from halting jerks into a steady (if shaky) rise and fall again.

“That’s it,” he said, encouraging. “You’re okay, I’ve got you. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“You can’t promise that,” Credence mumbled, defiant in a way that Percival was always so proud to hear from him after everything.

“I can’t; you’re right. I can promise to never leave without a proper goodbye like that ever again though.”

One of Credence’s hands had come up to hold Percival’s wrist and he felt Credence’s thumb press against his pulse. Never before had Percival urged it to beat more strongly.

“I have to…” Credence broke off, clearly embarrassed as he looked away to one side.

Although he ached to tell Credence it was all right to say whatever was in his head, Percival had only waited patiently for Credence to get there by himself, in his own time. He always did.

“I have to know that you love me, before you go,” Credence eventually told him, voice barely above a whisper.

Hearing that was like being hit square in the chest with a stunning spell.

“I _do_ love you,” Percival had said, letting the simple truth of it flow out of his heart and into the words. “Very much.”

Percival had ended up quite late for work that morning, and he hadn’t cared one bit.

Ever since, he’s left Credence each morning with a kiss on the cheek and the promise that he loves him, for Credence’s sake now as much as his own. That had been quite early in their relationship though and, over time, the anxiety has faded. The goodbye has become more habitual, less essential, but somehow it’s become paradoxically more intimate for the level of domesticity the casualness implies.

Sometimes, like today, Credence doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing.

He _does_ tilt his face up as usual though, even as his hand continues to move across the paper in front of him. Obligingly, Percival leans down and kisses the smooth apple of Credence’s cheek.

“Who are you writing to that’s more important than me?” he asks against Credence’s ear.

“Tickles,” Credence says with a laugh and shoves him away. “And it’s Newt. I’m reviewing his book.”

Percival frowns heavily. “You mean his highly illegal creature manifesto.”

“He hates that you call it that, you know.”

“Indeed I do. And I’ll call it worse now I know it’s distracting you from _me._ ”

“Poor Percival,” Credence teases, and his eyes are _still_ on the letter.

It’s as delightful as always to hear Credence talk this way, for him to refuse to bend to Percival’s will. Percival just has to be careful of how much of that delight he gives away, because it only makes Credence worse when he knows Percival will indulge him beyond all reason.

“You’re awful to me,” he complains without heat.

“You love it.”

Damn him. He knows. As usual, Percival can’t muster even a mild _pretend_ annoyance towards him.

“I love _you,_ ” he says, because it’s true, because it’s a promise he won’t fail to keep.

Credence stops his writing then and turns in his chair to give Percival his undivided attention. “And I love you,” he says, all mockery gone from his tone. “Nothing and no one is more important to me, you do know that.”

It isn’t even a question.

“I know,” Percival says. “But I think _you_ should give _me_ a goodbye kiss for a change, make it up to me.”

Credence stands at once, still beautifully eager no matter how used to this he may be.

He makes Percival late again.


	3. Prompt: painful kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this was meant to just be a short snippet prompt fill, because I thought to myself 'hmm "painful kiss", can I make that work on BOTH levels?' and then it just snowballed a bit from there. I feel like this could be part of a longer fic that I'll almost certainly never write? In any case, I hope it works standalone...

The knock at the door comes precisely when Percival is expecting it after the dire warning delivered by Tina’s Patronus: _They know_. Two hard thuds in quick succession break the previous fearful, uneasy silence Percival and Credence had been sharing in the foyer while they waited. Knocking like common No-Maj visitors is the best the Aurors coming to arrest him can do, considering how well-guarded Percival’s house is from ever being invaded without his knowledge or permission. He wasn’t taking any chances after last time.

Behind him, Credence makes a soft sound of alarm in his throat, the hand clutching Percival’s squeezing tight enough to hurt.

Percival turns his head and his attention with it away from the door and back to Credence at once. “We talked about this,” he says, lifting his free hand to run his thumb along Credence’s cheek. “I’ll go quietly and everything will be all right. You trust me, don’t you?”

The answering jerk of a nod comes without hesitation. “But—”

“No ‘but’s,” Percival insists. “Just let me do the talking.”

He allows himself one final indulgent caress of Credence’s face from temple to jaw, smiling gently at him as he tracks his eyes as well as his fingers over Credence’s every feature. It’s the last time they’ll be alone together for some time, he expects, and he wants to remember these last few precious seconds with perfect clarity.

Two further bangs of fist against wood try to regain his attention, but Percival won’t be rushed in this. Credence doesn’t even react to the noise this time, too entranced by Percival’s hand on his skin. He shuts his eyes and leans further into the touch.

“My love,” Percival murmurs to him, wonderingly.

The moment has to end. If he stalls any longer this way, Percival knows he’ll end up changing his plan and he’ll do something reckless _(ridiculous)_ like try to run or fight. Running would mean hiding though and the end of the measure of freedom they’ve been building here together. Fighting could mean death and Percival won’t risk Credence that way.

Their best chance is if he can convince MACUSA that his concealing the survival of a dangerous Obscurial for a year was _not_ an act of treason. He has to convince them that Credence has his awe-inspiring power under control, which is the unbelievable truth, or—if that doesn’t work—convince them that _he_ has Credence under control, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

How could such a magnificent entity ever be subservient to _him?_

The truth hardly matters though. All he needs is for Credence not to be deemed a threat. To be welcomed into their world so that he can live without fear of persecution or even execution, as the case may be.

Whatever freedom they _have_ enjoyed up to now has always been tainted by the knowledge that judgement day was coming. It’s arrived at last and Percival can’t say he isn’t relieved.

Without looking away from Credence, he waves a hand to dispel all the barriers (magical and otherwise) that prevent entry into his home.

“It’s open,” he calls out, as casually as he would if it were friends at the door instead of foes.

He forces himself to break eye contact with Credence at the sound of the door opening, turning to be able to see who MACUSA has sent.

The worst thing is this: three of the four Aurors who step over the threshold _are_ friends. Two were even his pupils, back in the day.

Triton Blackwood, the first one through the door, is neither. A recent transfer into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he and Percival had loathed each other from day one. If the smug bastard didn’t have such a high success rate when it came to catching wizards on the wrong side of the law, Percival would have had him thrown out long before now. He’s everything Percival hates: overconfident, superficial, and incapable of accepting suggestions or criticism.

Blackwood has his wand held righteously aloft while the others have theirs in loose, uncertain grips at their sides. Eustace Limus follows Blackwood, but as Chief Auror, his higher rank means he should have been the one leading the group. It’s a testament to his misgivings over this assignment and Percival is grateful for the reassurance that gives him. Limus had been the first one to clap a hand on Percival’s shoulder and crack a joke with him when he returned to work after all the havoc Grindelwald wreaked in his life.

Marina Tearle walks in next, face inscrutable. She was one of only two Aurors to qualify with distinction out of the first batch Percival ever trained. Now she’s one of his most trusted Lieutenants and the best damn poker player that Percival has had the pleasure of losing many Dragots to.

Trailing behind them all is Ivor Norton, his reluctance made plain by his darting eyes and shifting feet. Percival had carefully held his first-born son not a fortnight ago when Norton had brought his new baby into work to show him off. Percival had grumbled that this was hardly the place for babies and then found himself going silent, utterly enthralled (much to the delight of his colleagues) when the bundle was placed in his arms.

“Director,” Blackwood says by way of greeting. His title has never sounded more condescending in another’s mouth.

Percival ignores him and addresses Norton instead. The dismissal will needle Blackwood like nothing else. “You look like hell,” he says, because the pallor of Norton’s face speaks volumes. “Baby keeping you up? Or is it because you couldn’t shift this assignment onto someone with a bit more conviction?”

“I volunteered,” Norton says quietly. His gaze flicks to Credence over Percival’s shoulder and Percival can feel him tense. “We all did. I wanted to see for myself.”

“And now you have. Are you satisfied?”

Norton doesn’t answer him, just ducks his head down and to the side to look at the floor.

“I imagine _you_ are,” Percival says to Blackwood next. “You’ve finally got something on me.”

Blackwood shrugs in a gesture Percival is far too used to. As ever, it makes him grit his teeth in frustration. “I don’t take any pleasure in this, Director. I only wish we’d arrived to find that our intelligence was wrong.”

Percival scoffs. “Intelligence isn’t the word that comes to mind when I think of you, Blackwood.”

“I could say the same for you, given your current position. Did you _really_ think you could get away with hiding an Obscurial in your house forever? Coming back from the dead so miraculously like this means he’s wanted again. And so are you, by extension, for harbouring him.”

At this, Credence’s fingers take hold of the sleeve of Percival’s jacket in an anxious pinch. Percival can’t turn to look at him to calm him yet though. He has to get the upper hand here.

“It’s been almost a year without any incidents,” he says, “so… yes, I did think I might get away with it, actually. Credence has his Obscurus in check. Surely even a dullard like you has noticed the lack of any destructive rampages through New York.”

A slight flush rises to Blackwood’s face and Percival begins to regret his hubris. He’s not helping his case or Credence’s by antagonising Blackwood like this.

“Be that as it may, the risk you took was unforgivable,” Blackwood says when he’s regained his composure somewhat. “Do you think you’re above the law, is that it?”

“If I did, I’d hardly be surrendering myself to your custody now, would I? Take me in, I’ll submit to questioning with Veritaserum and you can ask whatever you want about Credence. You’ll see I’m telling the truth about his ability to control the Obscurus.”

“You aren’t in charge of your own arrest, Percival,” Limus says, but his tone is mild, almost amused. Unlike Blackwood, he’s always preferred to _listen_ first before he starts talking. “Do you expect to be taken in for a friendly chat when you’re facing charges of treason? People think you’ve been keeping an Obscurial to increase your own power, that you’re plotting some kind of coup. Picquery isn’t President anymore and you aren’t well-liked enough to come out of this smelling of roses.”

The pressure on Percival’s sleeve increases as Credence seizes a whole handful of the fabric now. _Damn_ Limus—he’s gone and broken all the promises Percival had made about how straightforward and safe his arrest was going to be. He’d downplayed the political drama he was currently embroiled in.

“I’ll take my chances,” he says. “The deal is that you leave Credence here.”

Blackwood barks a laugh.

“You leave Credence here,” Percival repeats, more firmly, “and I won’t put up a fight. I don’t need you to remind me that Picquery isn’t President anymore, Eustace, I can _tell_. Seraphina would never have sent just four Aurors to bring _me_ in.”

“We have to take the Obscurial, Graves.” Tearle is the one speaking now, the words eminently logical in her soft, reasonable voice. “We can hardly leave him behind, knowing what he’s capable of.”

“And how do you propose to take him?” Percival asks. “Over my dead body? I won’t say it again: he stays here, where I know he’s safe. He won’t do any harm, the same as he hasn’t for the last twelve months.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Limus says. “Mercy Lewis, Percival, none of us want to _kill_ you.”

Blackwood does, Percival suspects. He keeps that to himself though. “Then you accept my terms,” he says.

As the most senior Auror, Limus has final say and all eyes look to him. Norton’s face has turned from white to a rather concerning grey. Marina is about as expressive as a blank slate as usual, while Blackwood’s clenched jaw conveys his dissatisfaction all too well.

“I don’t wish to distress a potentially volatile Obscurial by attempting to detain him,” Limus eventually says at length. “I accept your terms.”

He nods at Blackwood who—still looking extremely disgruntled—moves in front of Percival. Blackwood lifts his wand and Percival sees a thin silver chain start to spill out of the tip.

“Really?” he asks. “You’re going to bind me? You know I can escape that. If you’re taking me in then just take me in; don’t stand here insulting me in my own home. It’s just crass.”

“Just following procedure, Director,” Blackwood says with a brief quirk of one side of his mouth. He can’t seem to suppress his glee at being the one to do this.

Percival glares at him and keeps his hands by his sides instead of lifting them obligingly. “I know you’re eager, Blackwood, but I wonder if I might be allowed to say goodbye to Credence first?”

Credence has been so, _so_ good up to now, even though Percival knows he’s terrified. He hasn’t said even a single word like he’d promised Percival he wouldn’t. A purely spoken goodbye seems an inadequate gesture in light of his compliance. Percival wants his hands free for this.

Grudgingly, Blackwood glances over at Limus again.

“I’ll allow it,” Limus says. “But I’m afraid we can’t give you any privacy.”

Percival could not care less. Let them watch.

He barely makes a quarter of a turn before Credence is on him, stumbling straight into his chest, arms looping around Percival’s neck.

He’s trembling as he clings to Percival with all his might.

“You lied to me,” he mumbles, face tipped down and buried against Percival’s clavicle. Probably so he can’t see the Aurors behind. “You said everything was going to be okay if you gave yourself up.”

“It will be,” Percival replies, holding Credence close with one hand curved protectively around the back of his neck. “You’ll see. I can smooth this all over.”

“And if you can’t?”

“So little faith,” he teases. Percival lays his palms on Credence’s shoulders and pushes him back enough to make eye contact with him, purging all traces of levity from his tone. “Credence. I can fix this so you can be free. No more hiding, no more lying. I’ve been selfish by not finding a way to do it before now. I told myself I was keeping you safe, but really I was just keeping you to myself.”

Credence shakes his head in disagreement, eyes wide and shining. He blinks and keeps his eyes closed for a moment, mouth opening to let out a great shuddering breath as he tries to hold his tears back. He isn’t successful—just squeezing his eyes shut has allowed two to escape, twin droplets rolling down his face on either side.

Percival catches them with his thumbs before they can make it to his jaw and takes Credence’s face in his hands. “Don’t cry,” he says, the words soft and meant only for Credence. “Don’t you cry over me. Please, I don’t want this to be the way I leave you.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence says, sniffing hard and lifting a hand to swipe the back of it over his eyes where new tears are forming.

“You know you never have to apologise to me.”

There’s little time for more words between them, so Percival tilts Credence’s head to one side, angles his own to the other, and leans in to press their mouths together. Credence returns the kiss with unusual ferocity and then has to clutch at Percival’s shoulders for stability when they both stagger a bit under the force of it.

“Easy,” Percival whispers to him. “Easy.”

Either Credence ignores him or he’s just incapable of restraining himself because he doesn’t let up at Percival’s soothing. His hot, open mouth takes and takes, nothing at all like what Percival is used to from him. There’s no shyness or sweetness or even _love_ here, really, it’s just Credence laying claim to him with rough lips and insistent tongue and—

The Aurors at his back must have grown either too impatient or too awkward at seeing this whole display because, all of a sudden, there’s a hard tug at Percival’s arms and then his hands are wrested from Credence’s face and bound behind him.

“That’s enough,” Blackwood says. Of course it was _him_ that had to interrupt. “Let’s go.”

“No,” Credence says, “No, you can’t have him, I won’t let— Perciv—”

Credence can’t even get his full name out, he just lurches forward and crashes into Percival again, blindly bringing their faces together for another desperate, clumsy kiss. His mouth finds Percival’s chin first, dragging wetly upwards when Percival tilts his head down to help him. As their lips meet, Percival shuts his eyes and kisses back for all he’s worth, trying to reassure Credence enough that he’ll calm down and just let the Aurors take him.

Blackwood struggles to pull them apart, his movements jostling their already uncoordinated kiss and causing Credence’s teeth to catch Percival’s lower lip. There’s a bright, dizzy rush of _hurt_ in the tender flesh and, far from the accident it started as, Credence actually seems to bite down purposefully now as if trying to anchor himself to Percival through this too.

Neither the sharp taste of Percival’s blood nor his gasp of pain stop Credence though and Percival realises then that something is wrong. Credence is getting too wound up in emotion, his helpless grief turning into a worryingly determined rage.

Percival remembers Limus referring to Credence as volatile earlier, how he’d been cautious of upsetting him. It was always going to happen anyway, but the situation is going from bad to worse at a rate of knots.

More hands come into the fray and finally manage to separate them by pulling Percival back a few paces. All three of the other Aurors have joined Blackwood to hold him and he sees the sweat beading on Norton’s forehead, the pinched lines around Limus’s mouth. Even the unfathomable Tearle has a drawn sort of look to her features now she’s had to step in to assist as well.

When he looks back at Credence, his head is bowed, eyes cast into shadow. He looks as dangerous and distant as Percival has ever seen him and it makes Percival’s heart seize in panic.

It’s been a year, he thinks, surely this isn’t going to trigger the Obscurus... But, then again, this is easily the most anguish Credence has faced since they found each other after everything that happened with Grindelwald. If anything could trigger him, it’s this.

And Percival’s Aurors will kill him if that happens. Or die trying.

Credence’s hands stretch out to reach for him again and Percival has to lean into the Aurors at his back, despite it being the last thing he wants to do.

“Credence, let me go,” he commands, with as much authority as he can muster. “It’s all right, just let me go.”

On his left side, Blackwood’s hand grips Percival’s upper arm and suddenly presses down hard enough to wrench his shoulder painfully in the socket. It was a completely pointless, unnecessary thing for Blackwood to do, and all the more appalling for it. Percival’s wince is an irrepressible reflex.

“Don’t hurt him,” Credence says, his voice devoid of all colour and feeling. Percival knows that flat tone and feels dread rise within him just hearing it.

“Stop,” Percival says to Blackwood quickly, “you idiot, _stop_ , can’t you see—”

Blackwood flicks a wandless curse at him then, one that’s meant to subdue, and it brings Percival to his knees. With his hands tied, there’s no saving himself. There’s no grace whatsoever in the fall and he impacts the wood floor heavily with a gasp. He whips his head up again right away and sees Credence almost vibrating with unbridled fury.

“I said _don’t hurt him_ ,” Credence bites out. His eyes and skin have gone ethereally pale, while his soot-black hair is turning somehow even darker. His edges are blurring.

“Blackwood, you moron!” Tearle shouts. “For once in your life do as you’re told and _stop._ Do you have a death wish, goading an Obscurus like this?”

“What do we do?” Norton asks Limus tightly.

Percival doesn’t hear the response, because he tunes out the Aurors’ voices and focuses solely on Credence. He goes to hold up his hands to placate him without thinking and is reminded that they’re trapped when that same wrenched shoulder burns.

“I’m fine, Credence, I’m not hurt, look at me—”

A low rumbling starts up as every object in Percival’s home begins to resonate at the same frequency as Credence. The sound of shattering glass startles everyone but Percival—he was waiting for his hallway mirror to buckle under the strain.

“Credence,” he says desperately. “Credence, _please_.”

But Credence is spiralling away, eyes unfocused, shoulders hunched as he folds in on himself and simultaneously expands outwards. Percival can’t let him get out of reach. He shakes his bound hands at the four dumbstruck Aurors. “Unchain me!” he shouts. “I can stop him.”

No one does anything immediately. Blackwood is the first one to get moving though and he raises his wand not to do as Percival has asked, but to level it at _Credence_ in a way that closes a vice around Percival’s chest. His urgency in the face of that is so great that he scarcely feels the fresh flare of agony in his shoulder when he sweeps his arms apart to break out of his bonds with a swell of magic. The instant his hands are free again, he gets to his feet and finds his wand where it’s tucked inside his jacket. He’s lucky they never took it from him at the start.

“Expelliarmus!”

A burst of scarlet light knocks Blackwood’s own wand out of his hand and it flies well out of reach, his fingers left grasping thin air.

“Any of you harms him,” Percival growls at the Aurors, aiming his wand at each in turn, “and I’ll kill you with my bare hands, I won’t need _this_.”

He doesn’t mean it, or at least he _thinks_ he doesn’t. He sincerely hopes none of them test him.

He blocks all awareness of them out again after that anyway and gives his undivided attention to Credence where he’s dissolving before Percival’s very eyes, arms held out as if pleading for help.

Percival takes a few steps toward him. “Credence,” he calls, raising his voice to be heard above the din of impending destruction. “Credence, come back, please. Don’t go any further away from me. I said you can control it, don’t make me into a liar.”

As he draws closer, the noise of the whole house shaking ceases. A few last thuds and clinks can be heard as things collide a final time before coming to rest again.

“That’s my boy,” Percival encourages. “Good, Credence, good. Come back to me now.”

The pain in Percival’s arm suddenly dissipates into nothingness. Percival glances at it in surprise and looks back to Credence in time to see him sag, dropping to the floor like a puppet with the strings cut. The sight of him hitting the ground is devastating, the sound deafening. Heart in his mouth, Percival closes the final bit of distance between them and falls to his knees to gather Credence’s limp body into his arms.

Credence’s eyes are open and he’s conscious, but his eyelids are heavy. His cheeks are still deathly pale.

“I channeled it like you taught me,” he mumbles, just barely clinging on to alertness. Percival had needed to talk him down only once like this in the first few weeks while they both healed from Grindelwald’s actions. He knows from that experience that Credence will be exhausted for the rest of the day, all his energy drained in fighting not to split himself apart and just _decimate._

“You channeled it into healing, I know. And I’m so proud of you for that.”

Credence’s hand meanders up between them and he touches Percival’s lower lip with careful fingers. The swelling is gone now, the indents left by Credence’s teeth erased along with the sting that was their other legacy.

“I love you,” Credence says brokenly, the words tumbling out with all the cracks they gathered struggling through his clogged-up throat. Tears shimmer along his eyelids but don’t spill over. “I didn’t want you hurt.”

Percival catches Credence’s hand in his own and brings it to his lips before settling it back down on Credence’s chest over his heart so they can both feel its steady, if slightly sluggish thumping. He uses his other hand to stroke through Credence’s hair, fingertips catching on the delicate shell of his ear with each pass. The tenderness Percival feels towards him in this moment is boundless.

“I’m not hurt, not anymore. You don’t have to worry about that or anything else now. Just rest, Credence. Close your eyes for me.”

Credence’s eyelashes flutter a few times and then he closes them fully. So trusting. Percival leans down to brush his lips against Credence’s forehead. “That’s it,” he whispers.

He pulls back to watch and listen as Credence falls asleep within seconds, his face losing all tension and his breathing turning deep and regular. He shouldn’t wake for hours now.

A hand touches Percival’s shoulder and he looks up to see Limus standing over him. “I told you he can control it,” Percival says. His voice shakes, the hand he runs through his own hair doing the same with his adrenaline level starting to dwindle.

Limus sighs and squats down by Credence’s feet to be level with Percival. “But that was the nearest possible miss,” he says. “You know that.”

“It hasn’t happened in nearly a year. He hasn’t got this far in a whole _fucking_ year. And then you blunder in to arrest me and now this.”

The bitter taste in Percival’s mouth is overwhelming. If they’d just been left alone…

“If it’s been a year,” Limus says, “then this shouldn’t be happening at all. He hasn’t _mastered_ it, Percival, and it just goes to show he’s only one bad day away from causing another major incident. It’s no way for him to live. It’s no way for _you_ to live.”

“What would you have me do?” Percival asks. “Give him to MACUSA? You know what the President’s solution will be.”

Their conversation so far hasn’t caused Credence to stir once. He just sleeps on in Percival's arms, his youthful face looking acutely vulnerable in repose. Percival skims the back of his hand over one of Credence's flushed cheeks for his own comfort.

While Limus reasons with him, the other three Aurors are keeping their peace. Placid expression firmly back in place, Tearle sits cross-legged on the floor and observes them. Norton meanwhile seems to be in shock, leaning against the wall for support with his eyes closed. Blackwood has his arms folded and is eyeing Credence with suspicion, but he’s not making any moves, deferring at last to Limus after what he almost wrought with his arrogance.

“I’m afraid I do know,” Limus says. “Isn’t there anyone who knows how to get rid of an Obscurus?”

Does he think Percival hasn’t researched that? “Newt Scamander managed to preserve one after its host died,” he says. “But the method he used doesn’t translate to extracting one from a live host without causing any damage. He’s looking into another way, but he’s in England right now and it’s slow work because it’s unchartered territory.”

Limus’s mouth twists, hearing that. “Surely someone else has tried though, or might be able to find a way? As the oldest living Obscurial, the only one to come back from being almost destroyed like he was, maybe Credence should be studied so he can be better understood?”

Without intending to, Percival tightens his grip on Credence. He’s relieved when he checks and finds he hasn’t disturbed him with the movement. “He’s not an object to be poked and prodded and _understood_ ,” Percival hisses.

He’s _mine,_ Percival doesn’t say. He’s the unbearable lightness in Percival’s chest when they first kissed after days, weeks, _months_ of wanting, the same lightness he’s still felt every time since. He’s a body to anchor him after nightmares, a smile to lift him after a trying day. He’s fingers in hair and shared breaths and skin Percival knows as well as his own. He’s the voice in Percival’s head when they’re apart, the hand always within reach of his when they’re together.

He’s Percival’s beating heart and his burning soul and if he gives Credence up, then he loses all of it.

He could cope with that if it meant Credence _truly_ being free. He’d break his own heart and rend his soul over and over for that. But he won’t consign him to a cage or condemn him to death.

“I’ve never seen you in love,” Limus remarks then, steering the conversation in an unexpected direction. He says it so lightly, easily, like a friend might. Are they still friends?

Percival says nothing in return, looking down at Credence again. His eyes travel across his face, lingering on the long sweep of his eyelashes and the dark circles they lay against.

“It’s quite illuminating,” Limus continues. “I’d be overjoyed if circumstances were different.”

“But they aren’t,” Percival says. He tries to give Limus a smile and finds it harder than he thought it would be when he decided to do it.

“They aren’t, but perhaps they could be.” Limus rises to his feet. “Go to England,” he says when he’s upright again. “You won’t win hearts and minds at MACUSA if we take you in now after this, you don't need me to tell you that. So go to England and find Scamander. Can you trust him to find a way to help Credence without… poking and prodding him?”

“Sir,” Blackwood protests loudly and Limus waves a hand at him to stop him in his tracks. Percival suspects a muffling charm was used, in fact.

“Letting us go is treason,” Percival says with a frown. “You’d all be in the firing line.”

“No,” Limus says. He gives an odd little laugh and lifts his wand. “Just me.”

He suddenly spins on his heel and fires off three stunning spells. The whole foyer lights up for a few seconds and Percival gapes as Blackwood, Norton, and Tearle all hit the ground in quick succession.

“You fool,” Percival says while Limus moves around, diligently checking on each of them. “What in Merlin’s name possessed you to do that?”

When Limus has satisfied himself that he hasn’t done the Aurors any lasting harm, he sits himself down on the floor and draws his knees up to his chest. For a man who’s older than Percival, he looks somehow younger than even Credence like this.

“I’m tired,” he says simply. “I’m beyond tired. I thought I just needed to get more sleep at night, but it’s something deeper than that. Ever since Picquery got replaced... I don’t know. I struggle to know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore, so I’m getting out. You must understand what I’m talking about, Percival. Look at you there, cradling an illegal Obscurial in your lap. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Neither did I,” Percival admits, gazing down at the treasure he’s holding. He smiles almost automatically, but it wavers when he looks back up to Limus. “So what will you do now?”

Limus huffs a laugh. “I guess I’m taking early retirement,” he says and then nods at Credence. “Seeing him respond to you like that, the way you pulled him back from the brink… I haven’t seen love— _real_ love—like that in a long time. It makes me want to take Marta and just travel the world together, see all the things we dreamed about when we were young. I want to give her a few good years while I still have all my limbs and only a third of my body is covered in scars. This is the last near miss I want to have for MACUSA.”

Every word of that makes utter sense to Percival. Before Credence though, he wouldn’t have understood it at all. He was a company man then, through and through. Work, sleep, repeat. That was his whole identity.

He’s built his life around something greater now.

“I think Marta would like that,” he says.

Limus smiles, but to himself rather than at Percival. “I hope so. Now, your head start is diminishing the longer we sit around talking. Do you have a bag packed or something like that? I can’t imagine Percival Graves didn’t obsessively prepare for this eventuality.”

It takes one curl of Percival’s hand to summon the bag that’s sat in the bottom of his wardrobe for months. True to that obsessive nature, he takes a moment to rummage around in it, making sure every essential item is still in there.

So it looks like they're running after all. It's not ideal, not by a long shot, but Limus is right: no amount of wheedling or ranting on his part will make MACUSA be merciful towards Credence after what just transpired here. He's right about it not being any way to live too—Percival doesn't want to live in fear of another day like today. He doesn't want  _Credence_ to be afraid of losing control again either, and he knows Credence will be horrified when he comes around fully and the true extent of what almost happened hits him. Getting rid of the Obscurus for good is their only option and Newt Scamander is surely their best hope of succeeding in that.

It won't be easy, becoming fugitives like this, but it won't be impossible either. Percival has a number of contacts across the pond in the Ministry of Magic that he can call upon for help—Newt's older brother chief among them for a start—and there are people throughout Britain who owe him favours, even a few who owe him their lives. There are people  _here_ that will remain loyal to him after he's gone as well.

Overall, they should just be  _safer_ in England, where the laws are still strict, but they're different to the ones Percival is used to half-heartedly upholding. Queenie Goldstein could marry that No-Maj baker she's in love with there. Maybe she'll come over and do just that, he thinks. Maybe Tina will come and make an honest man out of Newt, putting an end to their transatlantic pining at last.

Besides the few people he cares for, there isn't really anything else he'll miss if he leaves America. His job isn't what it used to be, his hours filled more and more with fighting a losing battle against fools who will never learn and bigots who will never change. He has no family besides the one he's made and the house that surrounds him is just bricks and mortar. It's only been a  _home_ since Credence came to live with him in it and it would be meaningless again without him.

Home is far from static to Percival these days. He's holding his home in his arms and Merlin help anyone who tries to take that from him, or him from Credence.

“Is there anything else you’ll need?” Limus asks. “Anything I can help with?”

The offer is startling in how exceptionally kind it is. Percival isn’t sure what he’s done to inspire such generosity. “I owe you more than I can ever pay back already, Eustace,” he says, confused.

“Well, the way I see it, I just don’t owe _you_ any longer.”

Percival frowns at him. “For what?”

“For not recognising an impostor when he was stood right in front of me.”

Ah.

Even after all this time, the mere mention of what Grindelwald did brings an ache to his wrists and a dryness to his throat. “I never considered that a debt,” he says, still frowning.

“I know,” Limus says, “because you’re a good man. But I did, and I’ve paid it off now. That’s one less thing to keep me from rest going forward.”

“Then I’m glad. You’re a good man yourself, Eustace. You don’t deserve that burden.”

Limus nods at him and pushes himself up off the floor. “Come on, you really should be going. As should I.”

Percival lets go of Credence with reluctance, gently settling him on the floor with a silent promise not to be gone long, and stands up himself. He extends a hand. “Be safe, Eustace. And be happy, too.”

Limus takes his hand, but uses the grip to pull Percival into a hug. “The same to you, old friend,” he says. “You look after that boy and you let him look after you in return. You won’t go far wrong.”

They embrace for a moment, but it’s the first and only time they’ve ever done so and it rapidly becomes awkward despite their sincerity going into it. They break apart with a laugh at their own discomfort.

Percival has never been one for goodbyes—the quicker the get-away, the better. He hoists the bag onto his shoulder and stoops to hold onto Credence’s arm.

“Good luck,” Limus says.

They’ll need it, Percival thinks. He holds an image of the port in his mind (he pictures a majestic steamship, recalls the endless churning rise and fall of the ocean, opens himself to new possibilities) and then he Disapparates himself and Credence both.


End file.
